


i got down on my knees (and i pretend to pray)

by Argella



Category: IT (2017), IT (2019)
Genre: Angst, Fix It Fic, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mentions of homophobia, Richie POV, The Kissing Bridge (IT), but with some reddie moments, can be read as bi!richie honestly, ive only seen the recent movies so beware book readers, just richie having a crisis and thinking about the song Listen to Your Heart, maybe not pc language? richie also says fuck a lot, mostly form richie but kind of from eddie too, only it's mostly richie afraid to accept his sexuality, richie visits the kissing bridge because i'm unoriginal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 11:21:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20947496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argella/pseuds/Argella
Summary: But Stan’s butchered Hebrew wasn’t Richie’s single shining church moment. No, it was what Stan had done after. He’s not even really sure it counts, since it wasn’t an actual service, but he can see, clear as day, the surge of courage hit Stan as he’d dodged his father, microphone in hand, and sworn in front of everyone. Richie had clapped then and wished, despite his mother’s strong grip yanking his hands down and apart, that he could have as much courage as Stan in that moment. Not the courage to face an evil clown or the courage to swear in front of adults—he did that plenty. No, the courage to just face his own truths and be unapologetically himself for a moment. It’s twenty-seven years later, but he thinks maybe right now, crouched down in front of this bridge, facing truths that he’s hidden from his whole life, that maybe he’s being as brave as Stan was that day.or, Richie has difficulty accepting the feelings he has for Eddie





	i got down on my knees (and i pretend to pray)

**Author's Note:**

> i am so tired and idk what this even is. i meant for this to be 1000x angstier and for richie to actually go inside a church while undergoing introspection but this happened instead 
> 
> title is from the song California Dreamin', specifically the version by The Mamas and the Papas, which is not at all about repression but i felt like this line just fit (especially with my original concept), y'know?

He’s not sure what possesses the words to leave his mouth. One minute all of the Losers are sitting around Eddie’s hospital bed, looks of sympathy and concern on their faces as Eddie rants his little heart out about his wife requesting a divorce and splitting up a shared bank account (“Do you know how much of a fucking nightmare this is going to be guys?”) and the next second, his tone has turned more somber as he begins questioning where he’ll live. Then all of the Losers—sans Eddie who is listing all of the terrible diseases that the homeless population are susceptible to—have turned their eyes to Richie, as if their minds have become some sort of weird fucking collective hive, all sending the same soft, prodding looks his way. It likely wouldn’t have even taken that much to get him to make the offer but fuck, they didn’t have to look at him like it was expected of him. Richie never had liked doing the expected.

So, with those four beady-eyed fuckers staring at him, his heart picks up to a thundering speed, and his voice says (of its own accord he insists), “God Eds, calm down. You can stay with me.”

Eddie’s words come to a halt and the other Losers all send him soft smiles. Not that he notices that last bit—he’s too busy taking in the way Eddie’s big, brown eyes are blinking at him, slowly at first and then more rapidly.

“Wait, what? You want me to stay with you?”

Richie shrugs, trying to act like this is way less of a deal than it is. Or maybe it isn’t as a big of a deal as his brain is telling him it is, because the others don’t look half as surprised that he had actually given in to their creepy as shit looks as Eddie does that he had even offered.

“Yeah I mean, I don’t know if you’ve heard but I’ve done pretty well for myself. Got a sweet bachelor pad near the beach that has an extra bedroom with your name on it.”

Eddie still looks unsure, teeth sinking into his lower lip as if debating the pros and cons. And something in Richie screams at him, tells him not to let Eddie say no.

But only because he’s a good friend who doesn’t want to see his friend become homeless while treating a nasty chest wound.

“Come on Eds, it’ll be like a sleepover! Like old times.” And then, because he thinks it’s probably weird to bring that up as if it hasn’t been literally decades since he and Eddie had had a sleepover, “Only this time you won’t have to call your mom to pick you up because you think you’re having an allergic reaction to the pizza we ate.”

Eddie’s face is turning red, a scowl crossing it. “That was one time, Trashmouth.” And the sudden tight feeling that had been making a home within Richie’s chest since he had made the offer abates a little, whatever the fuck that’s about, because this is normal. Richie says something to rile Eddie up and it works. Eddie takes the bait, rags on Richie, and they move on. What isn’t normal is that tight feeling—the same one he’d had when he saw Eddie again at that restaurant; the one that he had had again when he’d seen Eddie—still as small as ever—laid up in his hospital bed, cheek stitched up and chest bandaged; the same one that, if he really thought hard about it, he could trace back to having felt as far back as the age of 13, when Eddie was being attacked by It in the house on Neibolt Street, terror in his eyes. He tells himself, over and over again, that that feeling is concern—fear over losing his friend. He’s concerned over Eddie’s wellbeing; doesn’t want him to be homeless, or shish kabobbed through the chest, or have a broken arm. And that _is_ normal, he knows it is—why would he want that to happen to any of his friends?

Only he knows he doesn’t get that tight feeling in his chest about Bill or Bev or any of the other Losers. He knows it doesn’t just come along when Eddie is in danger either. But he’d rather not think about all of the moments that have caused that feeling—moments spanning years—so he tells himself over and over to _stop it_; contradicts his thoughts—one moment it’s normal, genuine concern, the next it’s a problem so _cut it out_.

“Yeah, okay. Thanks Richie,” Eddie says softly. His eyes are trained on Richie’s and Richie swears his heart skips a beat. Before he can think too much on that though, Eddie glances around at their friends, cheeks turning a lovely shade of pink—he’s probably seeing those weird stares they’ve been sending Richie’s way—and adds in a more normal tone, “I mean, I’ll need to be careful. I don’t want to get an infection and I’m sure your place is like one big infectious dumpster.”

Richie sends him a toothy grin. “Don’t worry Eddie baby, I’ll clean up all my trash and make it nice and neat just for you.”

Eddie just rolls his eyes in response before asking Bev to help make him a to-do list. As she drags a chair up to Eddie’s hospital bed (across from the one that Richie had claimed as soon as Eddie was moved from the ICU) helping him figure out what he needs his wife to send to him to California and who to call about transferring his prescriptions, Richie feels a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth.

He looks around at the other Losers—Mike and Bill and Ben—to see them all settling around the room and into the other chairs that they’d somehow managed to convince Eddie’s nurse to let them clutter the room with.

Richie had rarely left Eddie’s side since he’d been allowed visitors and he and the others had spent the first few nights and days out in the waiting room while Eddie was in surgery and immediately following when he was in the ICU and they couldn’t see him. They’d taken turns leaving to go get food and shower, but that had only been after they’d all spoken to his doctor at length and, in Richie’s case, been assured and reassured that he would make a full recovery. To say he had reeked those first few days would be an understatement, but it’s not like Eds had smelled much better.

They’ll likely be there awhile, waiting on Eddie’s doctor for an update on when he can be discharged and what his recovery time will be like, so he offers to make a run down to the hospital cafeteria for coffee for everyone (“Not you Eds. You don’t need the caffeine even on a good day.”)

He’s just made it out of the hall, stained sneakers squeaking against the shiny, lemon-scented floor, muttering everyone’s coffee orders under his breath so he doesn’t forget them, when he hears Bill call out his name.

“Richie, wait up!”

He stops, waiting for Bill to come up beside him before continuing onward.

“What’s up man, too stuffy in there for you?”

“N-n-no. Just thought I’d t-tag along.”

Richie notices Bill’s stutter has been getting better over the last few days, but it’s still there and might not go away until they leave Derry again. Apparently he’d gone and forgotten he even had one after he left Derry. Richie doesn’t know how you go and forget something as big as having a stutter when you speak, but then again, they had all forgotten each other, which was a pretty big deal.

_You forgot other things_, a small voice in him whispers, but he shakes it off, puts a stopper in that line of thought, and instead focuses on Bill’s words.

“…and my plane t-t-t-ticket is booked too. I’m g-guessing you and Eddie will book yours together? The d-doctor will probably wait to okay him to f-f-fly.”

“Uh, yeah, we’ll be going together I’m guessing. He’s pretty damn crippled right now so I don’t think he’ll be going off on his own for a while.”

Richie presses the down button on the elevator and looks over at Bill, sees that weird, soft look on his face again.

“What man?”

“I j-just think it’s really g-great that you’re being so supportive of Eddie right n-now.”

Richie frowns. “What do you mean?”

Bill shuffles his feet a bit, tilting his head in thought. “You know,” he shrugs, “you’ve b-been at his bedside constantly, getting him f-f-food and drinks. Really listening when the d-doctor and nurses go over his condition. L-l-l-letting him stay with you.”

Richie’s frown deepens when Bill finishes. He’s about to say something, but they’re interrupted by the _ding _of the elevator, stepping apart as people get off on the floor and walk in between them.

When they’ve both stepped into the now empty elevator, Bill pressing the button for the second floor where the cafeteria is, “I’m just being a good friend Bill. You all would do the same.”

Bill must catch the irritation in his voice, because he looks over, startled. “Well, y-yeah, I mean, we a-a-all want to help Eddie, but it’s…”

Now he can hear the irritation in his tone, not just feel it, when he says, “It’s what?” He doesn’t know why he’s letting himself get so worked up over this. Maybe he’s just a better friend to Eddie than the rest, but what does that matter?

“It’s d-different between you t-two. Always h-h-has been, ever since w-we were kids. I’m surprised it’s l-lasted this l-long though.” Bill doesn’t seem like he’s going to offer any more than that, pulling out his phone after he’s done speaking and sending a text, looking like he hasn’t a care in the world. Like his words haven’t just shaken Richie.

“Bill. What the fuck do you mean?”

Bill turns quickly toward him at his outburst.

“I mean, Eddie and I…we...he’s one of my best friends. Nothing’s…different or whatever shit you’re talking about. He got hurt, I helped him at the hospital, now I’m letting him crash at my place. I don’t see how that’s a big deal or, or why you guys keep giving me those looks.” Suddenly he feels like he’s the one that needs an inhaler, not Eddie. Richie doesn’t know if he’s trying to convince himself or Bill, but his rant rings false to his own ears. When he sees the look on Bill’s face though, _again_, “That! That look right there! What the fuck Bill, cut that shit out, what is that even about?”

Bill just stares at him, those eyes of his looking as though they know something he doesn’t. Like they know something about Richie that he hasn’t yet figured out. The elevator lets out another high-pitched _ding_, signaling that they’ve reached their floor, but Richie’s hand darts out and slams against the ‘close door’ button.

Bill lets out a sigh. “Richie, what do y-you remember from that night? After Pennywise I m-m-mean?”

Richie’s forehead furrows in confusion. “What?”

“A-after we ran back to Eddie. What h-happened next?”

Richie clenches his jaw, forces himself to swallow before speaking. “I—I mean we, we found him. We carried him out, got him to the hospital. He went into surgery and we stayed here.” His jaw twitches, thinking about the state Eddie had been in. The blood that covered his chest and Richie’s hands as he applied pressure to it. The bandage across his cheek covered in blood and dirt. The dried flecks of blood in his hair. Blood everywhere, so much that Richie can still smell it when he thinks of it. He hadn’t properly washed it off of himself until the next day, waiting to see how Eddie’s surgery had gone. Even then, the first time he had scrubbed at it had been in the hospital sink, remnants of it from his arms staining the white porcelain pink. It had taken another two days for his friends to convince him to head back to the room he was renting and take a proper shower instead of just changing into clothes they had brought him, and even that hadn’t happened until they’d told him that Eddie would have a fit at seeing Richie in his room looking like he’d been Carrie’d when he woke up.

“Richie,” Bill says. He’s no longer sending him that look that he and the Losers had somehow managed to simultaneously project at him. No, his face now wears a look of sympathy. “You don’t remember? You were hysterical.”

Richie struggles for words. “No, I…no I helped I was…I was running on adrenaline and I…I helped Ben get him in the car.”

Truthfully, the memory is spotty. He remembers the blood; remembers the roof coming down on them. Eddie in the back seat with him, slumped against it while Richie applied pressure, feeling like Eddie’s actual fucking life was pouring out of him and onto Richie’s hands with every new drop of blood. If Bill says he was hysterical though…

“He was fucking dying Bill. How else was I meant to be reacting?”

The door opens again, still on the second floor, only now there are people standing outside the doors, looking between Richie and Bill, unsure of whether they should get on or not.

No longer wanting to talk about this, “Just head back up, I’ll get the coffees.”

Bill calls out his name but makes no move to follow after him.

\--

Richie doesn’t speak to Bill for the rest of the day. It’s not exactly difficult to get away with. With the four of them spending the day in Eddie’s room, he doesn’t think anyone notices the way he never exactly addresses Bill and Bill alone. It’s easy to ignore the hurt look on Bill’s face when he remembers the sympathetic look in his eyes when he’d stared at Richie in the elevator. That confusing look of pity that left Richie feeling left out of the loop.

The other Losers begin preparing to leave around 8. Visiting hours end at 9, but Ben is leaving tomorrow afternoon and they’re going to help him pack up. Richie says his goodbye to Ben in Eddie’s room, not exactly up for any sort of celebratory sendoff. Besides, Eddie doesn’t like being in the hospital all by himself, so Richie wants to keep him company as long as he can. After multiple promises to Ben to pick up the phone every once-in-a-while and to keep him updated on Eddie’s recovery, the four of them finally head out, leaving just Eddie and Richie in the room.

They play with cards for the first half hour or so—some weird game that is explained in the instruction packet inside the overpriced deck he’d found in the hospital gift shop. Who the fuck puts instructions in a pack of playing cards?

Eddie starts tiring after two games. He’d always been a bundle of live-wired energy but now his body needs all of the sleep it can get. So, Richie packs up the cards, to Eddie’s feeble protests, and flicks off the bright fluorescent lights. There’s still cracks of light hitting the floor that are coming in past the blinds of the window that face the hallway outside of Eddie’s room, but it’s still relatively dark in the room. He settles back into his well-worn seat at Eddie’s side.

“Are you going to try to convince the nurse on shift tonight to let you sleep here again?” Eddie asks. His tone is casual, but Richie knows he’s actually concerned. He knows Eddie’s been prone to waking up from nightmares of that night—not unlike the rest of them, only Richie’s sure the fact that he actually got stabbed makes it a little fucking worse. Having someone here makes it a little easier for him to come back to reality upon waking up and, thankfully, most of Eddie’s nurses had been fine with breaking the rules and letting one of them stay with him at night. That person just happened to have been Richie almost every time.

Richie sends him a smirk. “Sure am. Old Doris can’t resist my wily good looks.”

Eddie lets out a snort. “It’s your good looks, right. Definitely not all of the ass-kissing you do.”

“I’ll have you know, Eds, these lips have only kissed one ass.” A beat passes. “Your mother’s.”

“Fuck off dude, that’s so disrespectful.”

“What can I say, my heart yearns for Mrs. K even after all of these years.”

Eddie shakes his head, shifting his body to get comfortable, a minor wince of pain crossing his face as he does so. Richie knows this means his fatigue is winning out and so he stretches out himself, trying to adjust properly in the seat so his ass doesn’t go numb within the first hour tonight.

Richie’s just staring at the sheets on Eddie’s bed, zoning out a bit, when he realizes Eddie has gone quiet, no longer rustling around his blankets. He looks over at him, squinting in the darkness to see if Eddie has fallen asleep already. Instead he finds eyes on him. His face heats. Before he can even think of cracking a joke, Eddie’s voice breaks the silence, so soft that Richie’s surprised he even registers it over the constant hum of machines they have him hooked up to.

“Thanks for letting me stay with you Rich.”

His throat suddenly feels dry, so he clears it before saying, “Yeah, no, of course. That’s what friends are for.”

Eddie nods absentmindedly and Richie thinks the topic has finally died; Bill has said something—something for all of the other Losers he’s guessing—and now Eddie himself has mentioned it. So, it’s done right? Eddie is staying with Richie. Richie is a nice friend. The end.

Only, “Do you worry? About forgetting, I mean?”

“Well, I guess we’ll find out soon, right? Since Ben’s leaving tomorrow. If he doesn’t call Bev incessantly then we’ll for sure know something’s wrong,” he jokes. It falls flat.

Eddie is shaking his head. “No, I know that. But are you worried?”

Richie doesn’t say anything. Of course, he’s worried. He’s already forgotten once. Forgotten about Bill, one of the first friends he’d ever had that made him truly feel welcome; who liked him despite all of the stupid shit he said. Forgotten about Stan; dependable, understanding Stan. He could end up forgetting Stan had died, how fucked up would that be? He’d forget Mike and his patience, Ben and his kindness, Bev and her fire. And forgetting Eddie…

“I mean, I know we’ll be with each other but what if…what if we forget who each other is?”

Before he can stop himself, “That’d be pretty funny. I’d be all like ‘Who the fuck are you and why are you in my shower?’”

“Richie.” He thinks Eddie is going for stern but his voice cracks on the second syllable and Richie’s heart feels like it’s fucking breaking because why did he have to make a joke about this? Of course he’s worried—he’d be fucking devastated if he forgot Eddie all over again but to have it happen like that would be beyond fucked up.

He can hear Eddie taking shaky breaths from his bed and doesn’t hesitate to reach out, his hand beginning to rub soothing patterns up and down Eddie’s arm.

“Hey, Eddie, that wasn’t the time, I’m sorry, you’re right. But I could never forget you, Eds,” he adds, trying to comfort Eddie because he’s almost positive the sniffling he now hears coming from Eddie is because he’s crying a bit. There’s a pause while Eddie takes in what he’s said and tries to get his breathing under control.

“You already did,” is his wet reply.

Richie stills before saying, “You’re right. I did. We all did. And who the fuck knows why; if it was Pennywise, or this town, or...So, yeah, I am worried.” He exhales. “I’m fucking terrified. It feels like…like when you’re on a rollercoaster and you’re climbing up before a drop. And you hear everything rattling and the anxious sounds other people are making and then…then there’s the split second where the cart hesitates and you’re just sitting. That’s what it feels like. That pit you feel in your stomach right before the drop where you don’t know if you’re going to scream or piss yourself. While you wait for what’s going to happen, to happen.”

It’s silent and Richie’s heart is pounding, his cheeks reddening again as he thinks about how much stupid shit he’s just admitted. His hand ceases its movements and is leaving Eddie’s arm when a smaller hand darts out and snatches it—Eddie’s holding it back up against its previous spot.

He must sense Richie’s embarrassment. “I’ve never ridden on a rollercoaster,” comes Eddie’s voice in the darkness, a careful lilt to the thick tone of it that lets Richie know he was crying. “They’re pretty dangerous.”

Richie chuckles, beginning to rub small circles on Eddie’s arm, while Eddie’s own hand stays gripped around his. “We’ll get you on one Eds, as soon as you’re all healed up. We’ll spend a day at Disneyland or something.”

He lets Eddie move onto the topic about all of the people that visit theme parks each year and how many germs they’d be coming into contact with just by walking through the gates, smiling to himself as Eddie’s voice gets quieter and quieter until all that’s coming from him are tiny snores.

He’s up for at least another hour, staring at Eddie’s hand still loosely wrapped around his own while that tight feeling in his chest and the one in his stomach he described to Eddie go at war with each other.

\--

They don’t talk about that night, but they both share looks of relief when Ben first called them and when he continued calling every day. These looks grow less frequent when Bev and Bill and even Mike leave Derry and they call as well with no signs that they’re losing any recognition of what happened or of each other.

(Richie especially doesn’t mention how they’d both woken up the morning after still holding hands. He tries not to even think about it.)

Eddie is released from the hospital a week and a half after Mike leaves. Richie booked them seats on an afternoon flight into LAX for the day after that so Eddie would have time to adjust to being out of the hospital before being immediately thrown onto a plane. Richie has been racking up a considerable bill at the inn, but that’s why he became a comedian, right? To spend his cash on shitty rooms in even shittier towns.

He’s driving them there right now in the car he’d rented when he first flew back into Maine, while Eddie’s voice is going a mile a minute.

“And you’ve called the rental place about returning the car at the airport?”

“For the hundredth time, yes.”

“Okay and are you sure the airline was telling the truth when they said there won’t be any animals near us on the flight? Because you know how my allergies—”

“Eds, for the love of God, calm down.” Richie frowns. “And you aren’t allergic to any animals, you know that.”

“Okay but one time, when Myra and I were on vacation, the couple staying next to us had brought along their dog—some ugly pug/yorkie hybrid—and I couldn’t stop sneezing the day we got back home.”

“Eddie that makes no sense.” He sighs at Eddie’s raised eyebrow. “But yes, I’m sure there will be no dogs, cats, or other animals near us that will have you sneezing two weeks later in California.”

They pull up to the inn, Richie carrying all of the stuff Eddie had somehow managed to acquire from the hospital—mostly gauze but he had somehow swindled them out of some sanitizing wipes too (“They have plenty of this shit, trust me.”)—along with the bag of things Bev had packed up and brought for him during his hospital stay.

“Bev got all of your stuff out of your room before checking out for you, so whatever she didn’t bring to the hospital is in my room. I’m sure we can just,” he hefts the bags up higher on his shoulders as he props opens the door for a slow-moving Eddie, “ask them to give you the same room or something if you want.”

Eddie walks in, taking in the lobby again as if it was new and he hadn’t just been staying here. There’s nobody at the front desk, and Richie takes a little glee in the fact that he’ll be able to ring incessantly on the bell until someone shows up.

Just as he’s setting their things down on the ground and heading toward it though, Eddie says, “That’s okay, we can just share.”

Richie looks at him in surprise. “You don’t want your own room?”

Eddie shrugs, scuffing his right foot on the shiny linoleum floors. “It’s just one night. Besides, I should probably be near you just in case.” Just in case of what he doesn’t clarify, and Richie doesn’t ask.

He must still look skeptical because Eddie tacks on, “C’mon Rich, it’ll be a sleepover, like old times.” Richie’s lip twitches as Eddie repeats his own words, a daring smirk on his lips that Richie realizes he’s been staring at way longer than he should be.

Shaking himself out of it, “Uh, yeah okay.” He picks everything up again and Eddie begins to follow him upstairs. “But just because you’re injured, doesn’t mean I’ll let you hog the covers.”

He hears a snort behind them. “Please, you’re the cover-hog Tozier, with your gangly limbs.”

He unceremoniously drops Eddie’s things on the bed when they enter. The chair in Eddie’s hospital room had been pretty damn uncomfortable, he’d known that, but he hadn’t realized just how much damage it had done to his back the past few weeks until now as he stares at the plush mattress and fluffy pillows. He falls down on it, face-first, forgetting everything except the way the cool covers feel under his cheek.

“Rich. Richie. Riiiichie,” Eddie whines. The bed dips down under his weight as he sits on it.

“Hmmph?” he grunts out.

“I’m hungry.”

His voice is still muffled by the fabric of his comforter when he says, “You couldn’t have said that while we were still out?”

“Okay but I wasn’t hungry then. I’ve been eating shitty hospital food and whatever fast food you could smuggle me in for weeks, I need real food.”

Richie lifts his head up, turning to look at where Eddie is staring down at him. He blinks at him lazily. “Aren’t you meant to be taking care of me?” Eddie asks, eyes wide like he’s a damn puppy or something, which really shouldn’t work but…

It’s that look that has him pulling out from the inn 10 minutes later. He’d gotten Eddie to lay down in bed, only slightly jealous when he’d commented on how much more comfortable the bed in the room is than the one he’d been sleeping in at the hospital.

They’d looked on his phone for somewhere they could call and pick up food from, finally landing on a diner that Richie doesn’t remember being in Derry growing up. It’s only a ten-minute drive away, so he should be back to Eddie and that sweet, sweet bed with their burgers and fries in hand in no time.

He hums along to the radio on the drive over, taking in more parts of the town that had changed since he’d moved away. While Derry has become more modern over time, it still holds a strange, ethereal quality to it, like it would always be a small town from the ‘80s. A song he vaguely remembers liking when he was younger comes on the radio and he sings along off-key, trying out different impressions while he does so. That reminds him that he needs to give his agent a call when he lands back in California. He hadn’t been too pleased when Richie had taken off for Derry after bombing a show, and he had been even less happy when Richie had called a few days later to tell him to cancel his upcoming shows because he would be in Maine, of all places, for a while.

He pulls up to the diner before he knows it, cutting the ignition and hopping out of the car. It’s not too busy, which shouldn’t be a surprise because it’s not exactly time for the dinner rush, but Richie also guesses that this place doesn’t get too much attention anyway. Google had told them that they had good burgers though and Eddie was dying for something that wasn’t from a McDonald’s or a Wendy’s but also wasn’t up for actually going out to eat.

He walks up to the diner, grimacing at the annoying bell that rings out when he opens the door. He can hear music playing in the background and sees a few customers—mostly older—at the counter and some in booths.

The inside of the diner just so happens to be ‘80s themed and transports him back to old-Derry; how it was when he was a kid, which in turn reminds him of It (as if he hadn’t seen enough of that bastard recently) and Bowers and just the general shittiness of growing up here. He pays for their food quickly and takes off, bag of food and drinks in hand, door closing behind him before the teenager that had given his stuff to him could so much as offer him the receipt.

It’s not like he hadn’t been reliving all of his childhood trauma recently. It’s just that, with Eddie being in the hospital, Richie just hadn’t had the emotional capacity to fully process what had happened over those first days they had been back. To process the flood of memories that had come back with It. His mind was way too busy freaking the fuck out about Eddie and what had happened with him to be worrying about any lingering scars from the bullying he’d received here. Sure, he remembers the arcade and the Bunyan statue and what had happened down in It’s lair—Eddie had almost _died_, how could he forget that? And yeah, Pennywise had used his own memories to torment him, but it hadn’t exactly hit him. The rollercoaster hadn’t dropped; he’d been stuck in that state of hesitation, fearful of what came next. What came with knowing.

But now he’s driving away from that diner with fucking Listen to Your Heart of all things stuck in his head thanks to the jukebox that had been playing in the corner, and he can’t help it, he starts laughing hysterically, tears building up. When did his life become as cliché as a John Hughes movie?

The rollercoaster has suddenly dropped, and Richie feels sick to his stomach, has to pull off to the shoulder of the road and wrench the door open, take in gulps of fresh air before he’s literally sick. He takes several deep breaths, thinking back to techniques the Losers had used to calm Eddie down as kids when he’d gotten himself too worked up. He counts to ten again and again, lets his fingers tap out in time against his leg. When his breathing is finally under control he wipes furiously at his eyes; at the wetness that had gathered there, streaking down his face.

He’d been facing the side of the road, looking out at the trees, while having his little break down, so he needs to turn back to get back into the car. He starts doing just that, hand fiddling with the handle of the door that he must have slammed shut in his panicked state, when he stops short. Ahead of him, just short of where he’d pulled over, the road changes. It turns into a bridge. A familiar bridge.

Richie doesn’t need a refresher on this. He’d just relived the memory a few weeks ago.

He’s nowhere near the inn. In fact, the inn is in the opposite direction. He should have turned left when leaving the diner; to get here he would have had to turn right.

Part of him thinks It’s back; that they didn’t actually defeat It. He’s stuck in the deadlights and this is the next step in his torment.

But the other part of him knows he isn’t. That his own subconscious had taken him here; that he was shoving his fear right in his own face.

His hand drops from the door handle and hangs limply at his side. He takes a nervous gulp, his steps tentative as he begins to move. When he takes the first step onto the bridge, he pauses. What he’s expecting to happen, he doesn’t know, but nothing does. The birds in the air keep chirping, the trees keep swaying, and the road is blessedly empty of any other cars.

It’s almost like he’s having an out-of-body experience, that’s how much his ears focus on the sounds around him. It must be that that gives him the courage to keep moving forward on his fucking Bambi legs.

He stares forward the whole time, counts the steps in his head until he stops where he knows he needs to. He looks down at his feet instead of to his right, pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose when they begin to slip.

_Turn, Richie. Fucking turn_, a voice tell him. The same voice that’s been a quiet presence within him for decades. A voice he’s tried to shut up.

For once, he does as it asks.

What he sees shouldn’t surprise him. It shouldn’t surprise him because, even though he’d forgotten Derry, forgotten all of his childhood friends, forgotten _Eddie_, there’d still been things—small things—in his life that he now knows were reminders. Vestiges of the life he’d forgotten. It shouldn’t be a surprise because he knows now that when he’d stopped short at the sight of warm brown eyes all of his life post-Derry, it was because he’d known warm brown eyes like that. Or when he heard someone calling out his name, “Richie” or even “Rich”, it sounded wrong; like it belonged on someone else’s lips. Why he looked for curling hair and sly smiles, bubbling laughs and small statures, in all of the people that managed to catch his attention. He didn’t know it then, but he’d been looking for pieces of Eddie everywhere, in everyone.

So, it shouldn’t surprise him, but a sob still escapes him anyway as he catches sight of the R+E sloppily carved into the wooden planks of that bridge. Had he even stopped to think about it when everything had flashed back to him those short weeks ago? He remembers reliving it when finding his token; he’d remembered Bowers and his cousin and all of the names that had followed him. Remembered the shaking yet determined hand that had held the pocketknife as he’d pressed the blade firmly into the wood grains. But now, seeing it in front of his eyes, the memory is much stronger than it had been when he’d only been picturing it in his mind. Much harsher.

He drops down to his knees in front of it, a tentative hand reaching forward to trace over the lines. They’re dull and faded now. He can remember how they’d looked fresh, clear as day. Remembers the reverence with which he’d stared at them, a thrill coursing through him alongside his fear once he’d realized what he’d done.

He sits there, knees pressed into the dirt and crumbling asphalt, finger tracing continuously over the lines of the R and then the E, R and then the E, R and then the E, again and again. He thinks about Derry—the one that the diner had reminded him of. A town filled with hate and fear—festering with so much of it, that Pennywise had managed to sustain himself and continue the cycle. He knows now that this hate isn’t exclusive to Derry; not just there because some alien clown brought it with him from space. No, Richie had moved on from Derry, moved on from Maine. He’d moved to fucking California, travelled all across the country on tour. He knows there’s hate everywhere. The same kind of hate that had permeated Derry. The kind that causes kids like Bowers’ cousin to call guys like him fairies. The kind that had fueled the types of guys that had tormented the Losers growing up. There’s hate of all kinds.

He starts thinking then of going to church as a kid. How’d they’d preached about sins and how sins make you dirty and only by repenting through prayer could you be clean again. He’d never paid much attention when he’d been brought to church, way too tired and bored and disillusioned to care much, but the part about being clean had reminded him of Eddie. All of the Losers knew Mrs. K was certifiable; that she smothered Eddie. Only later had they learned from him how fake it had all been. But anyway, whenever they went on about being gay or adultery or drinking or whatever it was they had chosen that day, they then would present the solution; how to clean yourself. And Richie would think about Eddie; how he liked to be clean, with his sanitizing sprays and wipes, his bandages and his annual flu shots.

He remembers once when it was just him and Eddie at the quarry on a Sunday afternoon, about a year before _that_ summer, when all of the Losers had formed. They were waiting for Bill and Stan to show up, just laying out in the sun and lazily talking about nothing. For some reason, Richie had mentioned it. The part the preacher had said about being clean. Maybe he made a joke of it, he can’t really remember, but Eddie had frowned, stared hard at Richie, and said, “It’s not the same thing.”

“Whatddya mean, Eds?”

“I mean, they’re not talking about a germ in church. They’re talking about like, your soul and shit.”

“So, you’re saying I can’t just grab some sanitizer and clean away all of the sinning I’ve done by fucking your mom?”

Eddie had done what he’d always done then, pulled a disgusted face and told Richie off. But then he’d gone quiet. Richie was too busy watching the clouds to really notice, wondering what was taking Bill and Stan so long, when Eddie spoke up again.

“My mom says…she says men lying with other men is more than a sin. She says it’s…” he had stopped for a minute, eyes trained on the ground. “Well, if it was a germ, she’d say it was too big to be cleaned. She says it spreads.” Eddie had chewed at his lip, looking out over the quarry even when Richie had propped himself up on his elbows and tried to catch his eye. Stan had shown up shortly after that and then Bill, so the conversation hadn’t continued or even been brought up again.

But Richie hadn’t forgotten what Eddie had said while he’d lived in Derry and he hadn’t forgotten what they’d said in church—that had stayed with him long after he’d left the town, building upon every slur that had been thrown his way; added on top of every bit of hate and fear that he’d seen and experienced since he’d moved away. He had carried it with him all of these years right back into Derry.

No, Richie had never carried any good memories of church with him.

Except. Well, except for the time he’d gone to Stan’s bar mitzvah. He’d mostly zoned out when Stan was reading the Torah—a jumbled mess of what he’d been trying to practice for weeks. Richie didn’t really blame him for the mistakes, it had been a pretty fucked up summer.

But Stan’s butchered Hebrew wasn’t Richie’s single shining church moment. No, it was what Stan had done after. He’s not even really sure it counts, since it wasn’t an actual service, but he can see, clear as day, the surge of courage hit Stan as he’d dodged his father, microphone in hand, and sworn in front of everyone. Richie had clapped then and wished, despite his mother’s strong grip yanking his hands down and apart, that he could have as much courage as Stan in that moment. Not the courage to face an evil clown or the courage to swear in front of adults—he did that plenty. No, the courage to just face his own truths and be unapologetically himself for a moment.

It’s twenty-seven years later, but he thinks maybe right now, crouched down in front of this bridge, facing truths that he’s hidden from his whole life, that maybe he’s being as brave as Stan was that day.

His fingertip feels nearly numb, no sensation truly reaching it after it’s traced and retraced the same spots over and over again. He stops, bringing his hands down to clasp each other. He chuckles grimly to himself, managing to see the humor in the fact that he’s kneeling down almost as if in prayer.

He sucks in a deep breath, letting it out slowly, even though he isn’t about to actually speak.

_Your name is Richie Tozier. You’re forty-years-old._ Another breath, this one quicker. _You love Eddie Kaspbrak. _

And then,

_Your name is Richie Tozier, you’re forty-years-old and you are in love Eddie Kaspbrak. You have been for decades. _

And then,

_Your name is Richie Tozier, you’ve been in love with Eddie Kaspbrak for years. You like men. _

And then finally,

“You like men,” he says out loud.

Suddenly he’s no longer just on his knees, but leaning forward, hand pressing down into the ground, pieces of asphalt digging into skin while his vision swims.

He doesn’t know how long he stays like that, but eventually he feels steady again and shifts back up, brings himself to his feet, and rubs his sweaty, dirty hands onto his jeans. He repeats it all in his head, over and over again, as if it’s all some new discovery and not just something he’s been repressing for ages.

He feels a laugh bubble out of him, so different from the hysterical one that he’d produced on the drive over here. That tight feeling—the one he’d been feeling so acutely since his return to Derry, more so than he had before coming back, before seeing Eddie—has lessened and Richie feels a relief he doesn’t think he’s felt for most of his life, at least not since he was young and had begun feeling a heightened sense of awareness when Eddie was around, nerves in his stomach that he confused with being sick.

The birds are still chirping around him, the breeze has picked up only slightly, and there are still no cars on the road. The sun is still shining, albeit a bit lower in the sky, and Richie has realized that the world had not ended with his confession. He hadn’t doomed himself by finally coming to terms with his sexuality. The world would keep turning and he would continue to be in love with Eddie. Only now he doesn’t feel quite so sick thinking about it. Isn’t trying his hardest to hide it from himself.

And sure, it’s not like he’s ready to scream his love for Eddie from the rooftops—and especially not in Derry of all fucking places—but he begins to feel just a little more hope than before. 2016 is not 1989, that’s for damn sure. And, well, his friends are Losers, just like him. He’s not tripping over himself to call them up or tell them but, after everything they’d been through, he still had them. The Richie of today is not the same as thirteen-year-old Richie, absolutely terrified that his friends would be disgusted by him for the thoughts he had of Eddie. For wanting to hold Eddie’s hand and mean it, for Eddie to know that he wasn’t joking around when he cuddled onto him. To kiss Eddie.

And Eddie…well, he’d get cross that bridge eventually. He’s only just fully admitted he was in love with the guy to himself, it wasn’t quite the time for some big love declaration. But at least now he wouldn’t be in a constant state of cognitive dissonance living with Eddie when he knows that his feelings are bound to rear up inside him.

He looks out at the horizon one last time and wonders exactly how long he’s been here. If the food is cold, he’ll just tell Eddie that the wait was longer than expected. But now, he really should be getting back.

Richie looks at the carved letters one last time before heading back to the driver’s side door of the car, feels the same thrill he did when he first carved them twenty-seven years ago but, to his relief, no longer feels the same intense self-loathing and fear he did then.

As he’s buckling up, about to put the car in drive, Stan’s speech comes back to him in more detail. He shakes his head, a small smile on his lips as he thinks on what thirteen-year-old Stanley Uris had to say about being an adult: that it’s about learning to not give a shit. He drives away from the bridge, back to Eddie and their room at the inn, hoping he’s proved Stanley just a little bit right by accepting his truth and deciding not to give a shit; to not let his fear rule him.

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you enjoyed, lol. i'm definitely already thinking about richie telling eddie about his feelings and also them at Disneyland. 
> 
> also on tumblr at ladystvrks, where i carry out my sad reddie hours (TM)


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